forever the name on my lips
by Mrs. Elizabeth Gibbs
Summary: Five kisses over the nearly three decades long relationship between Phil Coulson and Melinda May.


A/N: Kind of based on the prompt basorexia (an overwhelming desire to kiss) from Lilly (about a million years ago, oops). Title from Last Kiss by Taylor Swift.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

* * *

I.

The first kiss is nothing more than part of a game. It's what they deserve for drinking with the freshman, really. Maria is already drunk, laughing at something the guy next to her is whispering in her ear; Melinda watches the bottle spin and spin and spin until it lands on Phil, and her heart jumps in her throat.

It's not that her best friend (and future partner) wasn't attractive- because he was. It was just that graduation was only two weeks away and you weren't supposed to get involved with your partner and he was her _best friend_. But she stood anyway, ignoring Maria's cat calls as she follows Phil into the closet in the back of the room. She exhales, and the door closes.

Phil's hands cup her cheeks before she can inhale again as he presses her back against the door; she freezes for a moment before she melts into the kiss; he tastes like vodka and cherries and his mouth is the tiniest bit sloppy as his tongue meets hers. She can feel her knees weaken as she sinks into the kiss; her hands slide up his back as his tangle in her hair, tugging gently as she whimpers against his mouth.

When they break apart she gasps, hands gripping his shoulders; he ducks his head to her neck, pressing a line of kisses down the column of her throat. Her hand slips up to the back of his head, holding him against her as she hums softly.

The knock on the door makes them both pause; Phil steps away, though his hands stay on her hips; she bites her lip as Maria calls out loudly that their seven minutes is up. Melinda reaches behind her and opens the door while Phil runs a hand over his face, lips parting in a sigh. They leave the closet, the spell breaking.

The next morning, Phil is the most hungover she's ever seen him. They don't mention the kiss in the closet ever again.

(It's the best first kiss she's ever had.)

* * *

II.

She always tastes sweet.

It's something he's noticed over the course of their relationship (because he's still optimistic it's a relationship; after all, he has met her mother). She always tastes sweet, like candy. Even now, curled up in his arms, she tastes warm and sweet.

"We're going to miss our flight," she murmurs against his shoulder, eyes still closed as she made no move to get up.

"There are other planes," he replied quietly, carding his fingers through her hair. She smiled against his skin.

"Fury will murder us," she says, laughter in her voice as she finally cracks her eyes open. "We have to get up."

In response he just hugs her tighter to him, burying his face in her neck as she bursts into laughter, struggling against him.

"Phil, stop!" she's still laughing when she shoves him off of her, turning and straddling his waist, pinning his hands above his head as she smiles down at him. "We need to get ready."

"Straddling me isn't going to get me out of bed," he points out, raising an eyebrow; Melinda rolls her eyes, leaning down to brush her lips against his.

"I'll make it worth your while," she murmurs, lips moving over his skin; he shivered underneath her, lips parting slightly as they ghosted over his Adam's apple. She reached the collar of his shirt and then she rolled away, getting out of bed and heading for the bathroom.

(It's the last mission they go on before Bahrain; it's the last time he kisses her when she's whole and bright and happy.)

* * *

III.

He misses her smile.

Melinda had always had the most beautiful smile; he'd fallen in love with it the moment they met. But he hasn't seen her smile in months; not since before the mission that destroyed her. Destroyed them.

He's sitting at his desk, staring blankly at the file in front of him, when he hears the quiet knock. He looks up, standing when he notices Melinda standing in the doorway. "Hey."

She gives him a ghost of a smile in response and steps into his office, leaving the door open as she moves towards his desk, fingers brushing the wood lightly. "Am I interrupting?"

"Of course not," he replies quietly, leaning against the edge of his desk as he watches her. "Everything okay?"

She chews her lip for a moment before she looks up at him, brushing her hair from her face. "I'm leaving the field."

He stiffens, lips parting slightly as her words wash over him. "Lin-"

"I'm sorry, Phil," she whispers, eyes sad. "I just can't."

She steps closer; her fingers brush his where they lay on the desk, and she presses his lips to his cheek, lingering for a moment before she pulls away. He closes his eyes; listens to the door close.

(He told her to let the girl go; he didn't realize he'd have to let her go too.)

* * *

IV.

He's gone. It doesn't feel fair.

He's dead and she's alive and it isn't _fair_; he was always the better of the two and she should never have had to attend his funeral.

She's alone at his grave; she'd waved Maria and Pepper away, and waited until the cemetery was clear before sitting down on the freshly-filled grave, not caring about the dirt staining her black dress. She wipes at her cheeks carelessly- she just keeps staring at his name, cleanly engraved on the gray granite, and it hurts.

"I was supposed to die first. You promised I'd never have to go to your funeral," she whispers, voice thick. "You always keep your promises, Phil."

She hangs her head, jaw clenched tightly; she brushed the tears off of her cheeks angrily, pressing her shaking fingers against her mouth softly. She chokes back a sob, tracing his name lightly with her fingertips, kissing the granite.

(Even though they hadn't been partners in years, it still feels like losing half of herself.)

* * *

V.

He tastes like vodka and cherries.

It's Christmas, and Skye has set up an elaborate Christmas tree and decorations and hung up a quite ridiculous amount of mistletoe, and she feels happy, truly happy, for the first time in decades. Their family has been shaken, and broken, and things aren't sunshine and roses, but they're together, and that was what mattered.

It's an accident they get caught under the mistletoe, but Skye's catcalling is reminiscent of Maria's, and suddenly it's thirty years ago and they're both twenty two and young again, in that smoky basement with the closest that didn't lock.

It's not a hesitant kiss; it's a kiss that reminds her how well he knows how, how much he loves her, how this time he isn't letting go. She smiles against his mouth, and she doesn't even mind the comments from the peanut gallery that is their ragtag group of kids.

"I've been wanting to do that since I first found you where they make the red tape," he teases when they break apart, his arms around her waist.

"Took you long enough," she whispers back, hands framing his face.

He kisses again in response.


End file.
